Spiral (10 page)

Reyana, closely followed by the other TacSquad officers, fled the Control Centre, boots stomping metal grilles, pushing past panicked seamen who were also torn between fleeing and saying their last goodbyes to their gods.

The submarine suddenly tilted, and the crew were thrown like dolls across the Centre; bodies smashed into screens and sparks showered the riveted steel decking. Kolgar hit the wall with bone-jarring force and lay still, staring at the lifeless eyes of Lyagarin. The man had broken his neck and his limbs lay splayed in some bizarre horror contortion.

Water poured in; sirens wailed; red lights were flashing in the back of his brain but all Kolgar could think about were his wife Sonya and their baby girl Olivia. Short blonde hair, a beautiful smile, ‘Papa’ she called him as he carried her in his arms and she nestled close to his chest, softest of soft blonde hair tickling his unshaven chin, her tiny fingers grasping his huge hands.

The water was cold around his legs, a heavy and suddenly powerful swirling, remorseless. Men were screaming. Sparks showered him but he did not flinch. And then the power died: there was a distant groan, a shudder, and the lights went off.

More groans began, as if the Ballistic Missile Submarine 941 Typhoon Class was an animal suffering from an incredible wound; the groans rose in pitch and Kolgar could
feel
the pressure forcing in on them, could
sense
the sea - powerful and without remorse - crushing them in her fist. Steel and alloy screamed. Rivets spat from stanchions like machine-gun bullets. Stairways buckled and folded in on themselves as the might of the sea compressed and
crushed
the life from the submarine.

Those last moments, in the pitch black, with ice-cold water shocking his system into a rigid spasm - those last moments were the most intense moments of Kolgar’s life; he dreamed of what Olivia would grow up to be, and how Sonya would mourn at his grave. Tears ran down his cheeks. How did they miss that ship? he thought. How did they fucking miss it?

Reyana strapped herself in at the controls of the Shark Attack Craft; both Rothwell and Metrass were dead. Rothwell had been crushed by a split steel stanchion, the huge slab of metal screaming down to cut him in half at the waist as his entire system of blood flushed from his torn flesh in a scant few seconds. Metrass had been thrown violently down a steep stairwell as the sub rolled, Reyana hanging grimly onto the rails, legs dangling over an abyss as she watched her friend and comrade for the last eight years vanish under a surge of freezing dark waters and fail to reappear. It was a miracle that she had reached the belly of the sub, an even bigger miracle that the compression controls were still active.

As the submarine groaned like an animal in the final throes of death, the fast nuclear-powered Shark Attack Craft spat from its belly and spun between deep rock formations, bubbles spewing from its exhausts. Reyana, tasting blood from the wound to her forehead, watched in horror on the ECube-linked monitors as the submarine broke in two and sank in the deep ravine of the Tremanan Valley. Tears rolled down her cheeks, mingling with the blood there, and she armed the Shark’s weapons systems with a dry, fear-filled throat.

Something bad was happening.

Something incredibly bad that she did not understand.

She increased the Shark’s speed, descending deep into the ravine and navigating using sensors alone; outside the plasti-titanium hull of the tiny Shark the sea was a dense and uncompromising
black.

She sensed rather than saw the small object spin in front of her; squinting, she realised that it was a black globe, tiny - similar in concept to the Tyke scouts her team had designed several years earlier.

Reyana moved as if to lock her weapons - and realised that there was nothing on her scanners on which to lock. Swallowing hard, she switched to manual and flicked off the safety on the trigger. Beneath the Shark’s belly missiles and mini-torps slotted neatly into place. And then, suddenly, the black globe screamed towards her and there was an insane implosion of plasti-titanium and the sea rushed in towards her as she screamed, an intake of breath as the world went suddenly black and cold and the Shark spiralled down down down deep under the ocean, lost and out of control and
dead...

T
he busy London traffic sloshed through the rain, horns blaring, engines revving, lights cutting personal slices from the darkness with thin metal skins shimmering under amber light. Snakes of cars wound across the city, past burnt-out husks of buildings standing stark and forlorn, blackened fingers pointing accusingly at the God who had not saved them. Euston Station was nothing more than a crater of war detritus, guarded by five blackened stumps that had once been tanks, fire-torched turrets and twisted guns evidence of disharmony in this major UK city. As the snakes wound on, they would pass buildings smashed by shells, razed by fire, windows gaping tooth-holes and razor glass littering pavements. People treading the pavements did so warily, eyes watching one another with unease, guns hidden badly under coats.

The tall man stood by the kerb, long leather coat pulled tightly about him. His eyes were dark, hooded, his face a half-beard, hair short and spiked by the light rain. He drew on a cigarette and flicked the butt into the gutter where it mingled with the broken bottles and petrol-bomb remnants as a break appeared in the traffic; boots stomped puddles and he weaved his way through the rush-hour jam, picking his way between Porsches, Volvos, Fords and Fiats, interiors dark and gun-laden. He mounted the opposite kerb and halted, momentarily attracted to a shop display showing digital receivers and the latest in computer-guided weapons. The window was guarded by thick razor-mesh, further evidence of a city that was on the brink of internal collapse and war.

The man scratched tiredly at his beard, obsidian eyes reflected in the window. His hand flitted across his hip, then he turned and walked briskly down the street, boots thumping the pavement. He passed a gathering of Justice Troops - JT8s - drafted in after recent civil unrest who eyed him through their evil black masks before he turned right down a narrow alley stinking of long-unemptied bins, rat disease and the pungent aroma of tom-cat piss.

The rain fell, cooling his face, making his long leather coat glossy. As he walked, he undid three buttons down the front and rested his hand lightly on a dark metallic object within.

Jam knew.

Knew that he was being followed.

The footsteps were almost inaudible behind him and he increased his pace. He blinked, raindrops falling from his eyelashes, and reached out as he passed a huge metal waste bin overflowing with stink; the tiniest of clicks revealed his DP - a ‘detection plant’ that would lock to his ECube and signal him if he was being pursued.

Jam halted, listening, the hairs on his scalp prickling.

He lit a cigarette, hands cupped against wind and rain. Smoke plumed, dragon’s breath, and as the lighter was replaced so a silenced machine pistol found its way into his grip, still shrouded by his coat, still hidden by the gloom.

He turned -

A casual glance -

Nothing.

Jam walked on down the alley, under rusting metal fire escapes adorned with graffiti, under heavy drips from a dark and brooding evening sky that looked down upon this decaying city with malevolence. In the distance neon porn invitations glittered in a puddle and Jam felt the vibrating buzz of his ECube, a relayed signal from the DP. Three. Four. Five. Six, he counted. Shit.

Somebody wanted him
bad...

Jam increased his pace yet again, tossing the cigarette aside and switching left, down another narrow alleyway. He brushed past parked cars, many battered and bullet-scarred, and his eyes moved up, checking, scaling, adjusting. He reached a parked Mercedes, long and sleek and black, almost new and standing out from the other battle-wounded vehicles. He crouched behind it, sighting the machine pistol down the glossy machine’s flanks, using the coach line to steady his aim.

Six...

Shit, thought Jam again. Which group? Which organisation?

Were they a terrorist group? After the URG Bill of 2010 and the closely following Anti-NBC Laws, which carried immediate death penalties, terrorists of every nationality hated Spiral with a fervour.

Or maybe it was just a random gang, heavily armed and out for cash and guns?

Or maybe even the JT8s ...

Rain fell.

Jam waited ...

A noise, behind the poised man, alerted him. He turned, eyes still watching the distant entrance to the alley. The noises were too loud to be made by these secret followers. There was no element of stealth...

Five huge black men, bedecked in chains and sporting expensive suits, were making their way down the alley, lacquered shoes dodging puddles. Their gazes alighted on Jam, crouched and leaning nonchalantly against their Mercedes SL2i, and their teeth bared in a curious cross between humour and anger.

They halted. Jam threw a glance back down the alley –

’Get off the fucking car, man,’ came a heavy drawl reminiscent of a Hollywood gangster movie –

’Where am I, the Bronx?’ Jam smiled easily –

as -

machine-gun hell broke loose.

Bullets screamed, slapping at the flanks of the Mercedes, and Jam hit the floor hard, rolled, dodged the body of a black man who was picked up and spat backwards in a series of heavy-calibre punches. There were shouts, the black men produced pistols and a gunfight ensued with the Mercedes taking centre stage—

‘Motherfuckers...’

Jam backed into a doorway, heeled the heavy door open and spun into darkness -

Screams and the smack of bullets into flesh followed him.

Blood splashed up the back of his long leather coat.

Jam ran, dodging huge cold machines that loomed suddenly from the gloom. The machine pistol did not feel so comfortable now and he switched hands, wiping sweat from his palm. Six followers, the DP had relayed to his ECube - buzzing at him as it logged each pursuer ... could he rely on any of these mysterious figures - assassins? - being taken out by the gangstas?

No. Assume the worst; assume six to follow; and all six at least as heavily armed as himself.

He took the stairs in threes, long powerful legs pushing him up into the light. He was in a narrow stairwell that wound its way up as far as Jam could see. He ran on, producing a small dull silver ball from his pocket. A HPG -high-pressure grenade, working on chemical reaction instead of gunpowder detonation. No loud explosion ... a covert weapon, near-silent and utterly deadly...

Jam paused. Listened, head cocked. He pulled the tiny pin and allowed the ball to drop into the gloom below. He ran.

There was a muffled crack, and a hiss.

A wave of pressure rocked Jam from behind and below, a bellow of angry and silently screaming air, rushing past him like the close passage of a train - he didn’t wait to see if the HPG had caused a death toll: if nothing else, it would have made his pursuers more cautious. His head snapped left at the sounds of people, chattering, laughter.

He changed direction, opening a door and closing it behind him.

People are good, he thought.

People make good cover ...

Nasty though that may seem.

He passed through a series of extra doors, through some kind of thin-carpeted sparsely furnished smoke-stinking office with yellow walls and a pyramid of cups sporting tar-brown stains. An untidy pile of discarded beer cans, errant tangles of streamers and distant music intruded on Jam’s immediate pain. Office party? Jam stowed away his weapon and broke into the—

Dull light, dancing with cheap strobes and the flicker of amateur coloured disco lights as bad boy-band music crucified the air.

Jam strode through the group, past a stack of beer and decks and thumping speakers. Several office workers gyrated into his path and with the precision of whores on heat, tongues on wet lips, tight leather and glitter-spangled low-cut breast cups spewing tequila pheromones in a call for sweat-stained party sex.

Jam swiftly sidestepped groping hands, glancing behind—

To see the door open. Slow motion. Gaunt-faced men, anonymous in their cold professionalism, appeared: darkhaired and dark-suited—

And followed by—

Jam caught a glimpse of a masked figure, slender, with bright piercing eyes that seemed to connect with him as he stared, lips suddenly dry and the need to be free thumping in his guts.

Which organisation? spat his brain, searching the files and folders of his mind without success. He did not recognise these pursuers; but then, this information was an irrelevant factor ...

Jam broke into a run, bursting through another door. Bullets tore through the party, chewing plasma monitors and smashing partitions into sprinkler foam; Jam dived to the soundtrack of sudden panic screams, rolled, darted right and checked below. He kicked a hole in a window, wrapped his leather coat around him, and jumped ...

His boots thudded against the roof of a red double-decker London bus, and he slid for a moment before righting himself. The driver of the bus climbed free of the cab and started shouting up at him: Jam slid to the rain-slippery edge and leaped lightly to the ground below.